Kung Pao for Christmas
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU First in a series of Near Misses. Be there as John Munch sees Sarah Zelman for the first time, in a local Chinese restaurant. Takes place before the novella, November Rain.


"Kung Pao for Christmas"

by Cardinal Robbins

Disclaimer:

John Munch isn't mine, but that doesn't mean I'll leave well-enough alone. Sarah Zelman is mine, but if Wolf asks nicely, someday she'll be his.

A/N:

For those of you who enjoy the Munch/Zelman AU and actually keep track of fanon better than I do, which I greatly appreciate, this tale is set on 12/25/2000. Before the WTC towers fell, and before "November Rain." Hey, who knew?

Christmas night. A long shift over; too long, if I thought about it, because Cragen stayed in his office for most of the day and everyone else had the day off. Most Jews don't mind working the 25th, especially if it means giving well-deserving coworkers time to spend with family. Their real family – not those at the Sixteenth Precinct who are day-to-day surrogates.

What does a Jew do on Christmas, when he's not such a great cook or most of the coffee shops are grudgingly closed for a day of purported rest? This one goes out for Chinese food, like hundreds upon hundreds of others for whom the holiday holds no special significance. Sure, I like the holidays as well as anyone, but Hanukkah's my thing at this time of year. Christmas? Aside from an extra helping of good will toward my fellow human beings, it's not much removed from most winter days.

The snow was coming down in large, slowly falling flakes, so big you could see some of the unique patterns. Two and a half inches of powdery white seemed to drape the city in a crisp, clean blanket. Wrapped in cold, stark beauty, the streets and sidewalks almost glimmered under the streetlights. I've always loved it like this.

Lights were on inside Wang Chung's, a neighborhood noodle joint named for the 1980's band, that served up much better Hunan-style cuisine than most people expected. Kim Fong greeted me warmly and showed me to a table, 'my' table, near the rear of the establishment. He knew I liked to watch the door, not so much in case of trouble, but merely to people-watch and pass the time. I shrugged out of my coat and scarf, laying them over the chair beside me. Snow was melting into my hair, since I'd forgotten my hat in the early morning rush to work.

I was almost alone in the restaurant, except for the owners and one solitary customer. There she sat, still working at that late hour, despite it being Christmas. The screen of the laptop glowed in front of her, three tables ahead of me, across the aisle. Glasses. The image of the computer screen reflected in those darkened lenses she wore. Her hair gleamed reddish in the low light, pale features lit by the laptop.

Was she lonely, too?

She looked vaguely familiar, but when you're a cop, everyone seems to look like you know them from somewhere. As she drank hot green tea and poked at the keyboard, I wondered if she was someone I knew, but no name came to mind. Still, it nagged me a bit. Maybe I'd seen her in the coffee shop a few blocks over?

No matter.

"The usual, Mister John?" Fong asked, almost startling me. He'd no doubt seen me watching the woman, while I was lost in curious thought.

I picked up the closed menu and handed it to him, wondering why I even looked. Kung Pao was a distinct possibility, but I opted out and went for something less fiery. "The usual." Orange-flavored chicken, white rice, green tea…and don't forget the fortune cookie. Easy. Predictable. Boring as hell.

He grinned and went over to the woman's table, presumably to take her order as well. She hadn't touched the menu since I'd seen her, but that wasn't unusual. She could have decided before I walked in.

"Same as I always have, Fong, thanks," she said, just loud enough for me to overhear. What had she ordered? Whatever it was, Fong had a wide smile on his face as he walked past me and into the kitchen.

The late edition of the Times lured me with its headlines, but that gave me a screen over which to watch the world. It piqued my interest when one of Fong's daughters came from the back and sat down at the woman's table. They chatted amiably for several minutes, until she got up and walked past me, toward the restrooms.

I found it odd, the way the young girl stayed with the woman's laptop. She made no motion toward it, but it seemed obvious she was watching over it carefully, as if they had a standing agreement not to leave it unattended.

She walked past me once more, on the way back to her table.

At that moment I saw it. Her gun. She was packing what appeared to be a Glock, a little smaller than mine, which would in all likelihood made it a .40 caliber model 35. A standard police-issue piece. I'd carried one of those for a few years, as a uniform in Baltimore. Once I made detective, I'd traded up to a nine-millimeter Glock. The matte black design was unmistakable. 'Mystery Woman' was a cop. But not NYPD, or her carry would be a nine-mill.

Maybe a Fed, since I didn't see an obvious badge.

She sat back down and Lei Fong smiled, taking her leave to check on things in the kitchen. I glanced over again, trying not to be as obvious about it as I felt.

She caught my gaze and held it a moment, as my face reddened slightly. Busted. Had she made me as another cop? Her 'Mona Lisa' smile warned me she had, probably from the moment I walked into the place. I blinked first, the gentlemanly thing to do, but still my curiosity almost propelled me toward her table. What would I say? 'Hi, are you a cop? You sure look like one. Nice piece, too.' Smooth, John; you would be so suave. No. She was working. At least it seemed so.

Kim Fong came out of the kitchen bearing a tray, followed close behind by his daughter, another tray in her hands. She went to the woman's table and served her, while Kim carefully arranged orange chicken, rice and a new pot of green tea on my table.

"Anything else?" He watched as I shook my head. "Enjoy, Mister John," he added and walked toward the kitchen once more. But he was inexplicably laughing softly, looking to his daughter who also smiled widely.

After a moment, I caught the joke. I wasn't the only one who'd ordered orange chicken.

Glancing over, she had inadvertently done the same thing to hers that I did with mine. Instead of spooning chicken on to rice, she mixed rice into the chicken and then put it on her plate. She also had a take-out container brought with her meal, because she knew there would be enough left for a dinner or two at home. Or, who knows? Maybe she was taking it home to a boyfriend or husband.

Probably not at this hour, unless she was married to another cop.

While I ate and read the paper, she picked at her food and studied the laptop carefully, a few keystrokes here and there. Finally, she closed the laptop and seemed to concentrate more on her food than work.

Kim Fong must have noticed the laptop was closed, because he came out, bringing her a new pot of tea. "How is Mister Steve?" he asked her, taking a seat at her table. "He works you too hard, I think. At least he gives you time to eat."

"Steve's good," I heard her reply. "He's home with the wife and kids tonight."

I stole a glance at them as they talked, wondering if she was seeing a married man.

"He's a good boss, but he shouldn't work you on Christmas. Even a secret agent needs time off," Fong joked.

She cringed at the words, 'secret agent,' which meant 'agency job' to me. FBI or CIA? It wouldn't necessarily be the Secret Service or the Marshals, but those were remote possibilities, too.

"I get plenty of time off, don't you worry. Steve keeps me busy, you keep me fed. What more could I ask for?" She was clearly enjoying the banter, in no hurry to leave. So, 'Steve' wasn't a boyfriend, but her boss. Interesting.

Lei came out and I signaled her it was okay to package the leftovers. She placed my check and a fortune cookie on the table before swiftly putting everything in a to-go container and bagging it.

I cracked open the cookie and pulled the slip of paper from it. 'Love is closer than you think,' it proclaimed. It was all I could do to contain a cynical snort of laughter, but I didn't want to attract attention.

She was getting up to leave, laptop back in its case, food in a white plastic bag.

At the risk of looking like a stalker, I waited a few moments before making my way to the cash register. She was reaching deep into her pocket for a nickel, but gave up.

"Kim, give me the five and ten back; I'll give you a twenty instead and take the change."

"Don't you worry about a nickel," he said. "It's not enough to care about."

"Your cash drawer will be off," she insisted, taking out a twenty.

"Will this help?" I fished out a nickel and hoped she'd accept it. Why I held my breath for a moment, I'll never know. She wasn't bad looking for a cop, especially a desk-bound Fed, pushing data around on a laptop for her boss who probably fleeced the taxpayers with his cushy corner office.

"Thanks," she said warmly. "I appreciate it." When she smiled at me, her entire face lit up. I couldn't help but grin back, even though I suddenly felt like a twelve year old. Luckily, I caught myself before saying 'Merry Christmas,' since it was a decent bet she wasn't one who celebrated it.

We stood there a moment, simply looking at each other in awkward silence. She smiled once more, almost shyly, and I opened the door for her. As she walked out, I wanted to follow, to call after her, but by the time my courage surfaced she was gone.

Another opportunity missed.

I made my way home in the snow; it was falling much heavier now. While I hung up my coat and turned the thermostat up, my thoughts were still on the enigma in the restaurant. Give it up, John, I reminded myself. She's gone. You blew your big chance.

Whoever she was, I knew I'd never know for sure.


End file.
